


Half Drowned

by ByronicHeroics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Breastfeeding, Cunnilingus, F/M, Pregnancy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByronicHeroics/pseuds/ByronicHeroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Theon run away to the Iron Isles together and Sansa refuses to care that the Ironborn are petty and shortsighted about their marriage. She's too much of a lady to kick someone while they're down, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Drowned

Sansa lays in the fur covered bed and pretends that she doesn’t know that it’s wolf pelt so soft beneath her, because she is still too much a lady to sink to the pettiness of the Ironborn. They hate her mannerisms, her looks, and her name; she knows that well enough. Still she lays in the great bed as the sunsets and twists her fingers through the white streaked waves of their prince’s mane; she is finally princess and it tastes as bitter in her mouth as ashes. Her true home was left in ashes and now she is bound to be queen of an isle so dreary she imagines their god drown himself simply to be away from it.

In Winterfell, she never would have lain beside Theon Greyjoy, even should they have ever wed. She would have had her own quarters and when the time for heirs came, he would have visited her there for as long as that took, then left politely as suited a lord. Here he will make no heirs inside her and still they lie together like the custom of the commoners. She finds that she does not mind the feel of his arm around her because he holds her as no other has done. He holds her as if she is the most precious thing that he could touch; as if he is a man holding his breath and he fears should he let go that he will drown.

At night sometimes he twitches and trembles beside her, his still beautiful lips mouthing silent apologies and begging for torment to end. She traces the lines of fear from his features, looks long at the scars on his mouth where he has bitten himself and forbids herself to think of how this came to be. He sobs when she awakens him and lets her gather his shivering cold body into her arms to hold him as she would have held a child. He smells so sweet to her now, perfumed and well bathed as he always was so long ago, and that is a scent she breathes deeply of to ignore the musty dampness of their bedchambers. It helps her forget the smell of corruption and sickness that had clung to him.

When she is the one who wakes screaming, he clutches her so tightly that she feels like he’ll crush her and it is almost the same as when Robb used to let her slide into his bed after nightmares. She can almost forget that Theon had always chuckled at her when her brother had still been his bedmate and she was the only one to wake in terror. He promises her that she will never again be hurt, but she knows he cannot keep that promise. Only she is capable of keeping that vow. Yet, she allows him to run his few fingers through her thick hair and she feels no disgust that the sensation is not unlike a bird’s claws dragging through the red waves. 

In the mornings when the mist surrounds them all, she notes what a fine looking prince Theon still makes in his beautiful black and gold. She thinks how lovely he is and how he has grown strong not to hear the mockery when they call him ‘princess’ for the gold that his wife bestows on him. He ignores the chuckles at the luscious drape of his velvet that she enjoys running a palm over and the butter soft leather that she loves to feel when he caresses her cheek with his knuckles. She knows that Theon has always loved his finery and she loves him so why should he worry that these animals do not? 

Asha doesn’t like her much. She doesn’t like the way that Sansa’s feet sound in her dainty little shoes against the stones of their steps. She hates the contrast of Sansa’s pale complexion when she wears his colors and how bright and coppery it makes her hair appear. She hates the way Theon becomes as entranced by her fiery locks as he does her bejeweled hand when she rests it fondly on his arm. Love makes him appear weak and stupid. Sansa knows all these things because Asha is never subtle in her anger; it is not a Greyjoy trait to think before speaking. She thinks Asha must hate that Theon has a wolf ring made for her, with eyes of quartz as grey as House Stark. She imagines she hates it more that he wraps a gold Kraken around her throat.

What does it matter? Asha is a brave captain, after all, and captains drown in the untrustworthy waves every day. She will not have to worry about her jealousy forever.

Sansa beds Theon’s hideous uncle one night when the Ironborn are all drunk on foul bitter wine, hips pumping and hands swatting his away when he tries to grip her pert breasts with his calloused hands. She knows he will never admit that he has fathered a child on his nephew’s bride. She knows that Asha cannot risk exposing that Theon has been gelded without weakening their family in the eyes of their people. So her stomach grows beneath the black dress and her husband cries tears of joy for the infant they will raise as their own heir. It is as close to his own seed as she could give him.

He lays the half hand he has on the curve of her once flat belly when they feast with all the sea creatures of the Pyke. He cannot stop feeling for the kick of their unborn child. She smiles sweetly as ever when Asha’s eyes flash with rage at his pride; she would have him be angry at the obvious infidelity but instead he is as pleased as a cat at cream. He uses a shaking hand to feed his wife berries in cream and Sansa steadies it with her own and eats them daintily off of the spoon. She reflects that they ought to name their son Robb and Theon has heard no finer idea. It is a victory like no other when his sister leaves the hall.

They do not often make love. He can’t and she wouldn’t. Yet, they are tender together as she thinks none have ever been. He kisses her in ways that alternate from sweet and soft as a lover in stories to passionate and wild when they fight and he knows that she has won. She finds that his kisses most often satiate the tingle in her lower parts and when they do not, he lowers those kisses until she is content and his lips are damp as the sea on their return to her mouth. When her breasts ache and milk trickles from them before the baby is even born, she sees his eyes shimmer with awe so she pushes his mouth to her tit and urges for him to drink. 

He tells her when they lay together after, that her milk is sweet as honey, that her hair is bright as copper, that her eyes are like the sky in the woods they used to venture through. He knows so many pretty words she had always thought impossible for him to understand when they were children. He tells her that nothing makes him happier than her. She tells him that nothing will make her happier than when they both sit the throne. They were left together for dead once and the Ironborn have made a great mistake in forgetting their own words; what is dead may never die.


End file.
